


Falling Isn't the Same as Landing

by james



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint can never leave well enough alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Isn't the Same as Landing

Clint wasn't the first to arrive for the briefing, but ever since he'd joined the Avengers Initiative he was guaranteed to never be the last. He found a seat opposite Natasha so they could throw things at one another and settled in (four paper footballs already in one pocket, prepped and ready to go). He ignored Coulson's glare because, really, he hadn't done anything yet (even if Natasha was holding her hands up in a field goal post already). He told himself he should be pleased at getting a response, because, as Coulson had warned him, whatever might happen in a casual manner away from work would not change what happened in the field or in the conference room. Clint had, of course, been testing this theory ever since the first time he'd bent himself over a desk, although so far Coulson had been winning. 

Clint didn't know if it meant _he_ was losing, exactly, when he ended up getting sex in all sorts of places and all sorts of ways. But it was fun seeing how far he could push before Coulson either cut him off from ever getting fucked again, or he snapped and re-assigned Clint to the clerical department.

He didn't know if being a clerk meant he'd be able to tell anyone they were banging or not, even if he figured everyone already knew since Natasha was the first (and only) one he'd told. Clint tried sending Coulson another who-me grin, knowing perfectly well why he enjoyed needling the other man so much (or trying, God, the man never seemed to get ruffled, even when his cock was buried in Clint's ass and Fury called them on the radio, demanding he fly out to Boston immediately.)

But he lived for the day he could get Coulson to crack -- and if he refused to admit out loud the reason why, well, at least he had something to occupy his time when he was dressed and teasing Coulson into showing him something other than casual blandness and work-related irritation. Clint was about to flip out a paper football in front of Coulson, just to see if he'd order him to put it away like it might be explosive, when Steve came in dragging Tony by the elbow.

Actually, a small amount of explosives on the football would-- well, no, piss Natasha off. Clint scrubbed that idea before she could read his mind and get pissed off anyway.

"I do actually have real work to do, you know," Tony was saying, not really struggling against Steve's grip. He looked genuinely unwilling to be there, however, as he frowned. "My multi-billion dollar international company doesn't run itself."

Steve shot him a look. "I know. That's why I sent Pepper flowers on Boss' Day. Sit." He nudged Tony towards a chair, taking the one between Tony and Coulson. Steve seemed to think it helped if he acted as a physical buffer between them, but Clint could have told him that Tony's personality was stronger than even Captain America.

Coulson cleared his throat. "Can we please get-- Barton, if I see a single airborne item you are permanently on kitchen duty."

Clint held up his empty hands, looking as innocent as he could when Tony was snickering at him and Natasha was waggling her goal post at him in a 'come on, already' gesture. Clint tried pointing at her to let Coulson know that maybe he wasn't the one who needed yelling at, but Coulson just continued to glare at him.

Well, it was something at least, even if annoyance wasn't exactly a warm, romantic emotion. Clint mentally blinked at the word he hadn't meant to think, then smoothed his face into even more innocence. He left his empty hands clearly visible above the table and sat still as Coulson finally switched on the screen behind him. 

"We have received a report of--" Coulson paused as a small paper football flew through the air towards Natasha's hands. She leaned her hands to one side at the last second, making the football miss.

"I like this game!" Thor bellowed, taking another paper football and getting it into position. "At first I thought it would too simple, but if the opponent is allowed to move, I see there is truly sport in it." Thor nodded to himself, checking the angles and distance and eyeing Natasha to predict where her hands might end up.

Clint grinned and gave Coulson a guileless look as Thor pulled a pile of folded papers out of a pocket and set them on the table. There was a pause while Coulson very clearly did not sigh. Then he gestured at the screen. "A report of a new villain. We learned about him from his press releases--" He paused again as a small, red and gold metallic piece of origami flew through the air towards Natasha's hands, hitting Thor's football and knocking it out of its flight path. Tony's iron-football sailed directly over Natasha's upright fingers.

Thor grinned widely, clapping Tony on the shoulder.

Clint just looked over at Coulson, still as innocent as could be. It was possible, if he was lucky, that when this was all over, Coulson would spank him again.

~~~

"I don't see why I have to do this," Clint complained.

"Someone has to verify if this threat is real," Natasha told him, not sounding at all sympathetic. 

Clint thought she _should_ have been. She should have been in as much trouble as he was, not to mention Thor, Tony, and Bruce. Clint hadn't thrown a single thing during Coulson's briefing and no one could really prove he'd been the instigator, anyhow. He certainly hadn't suggested to Tony that he build some tiny footballs with self-correcting flight stabilizers, nor had he suggested to Bruce that traditional origami had some extremely aerodynamic forms. Bruce had waited until Thor and Tony were fighting each other, knocking their projectiles out of the air and Bruce had slipped his own right past them, scoring a goal rather easily.

Steve had been apologetic to Coulson and Clint had been ready to skip the briefing entirely and get back to anything at all which would be better than sitting through a briefing on a threat which might or might not even be a threat. Was it his fault the Avengers were easily distracted? No, it was not. And yet Coulson had pointed at him when the briefing had disintegrated and given him the assignment of tracking down Mister Mayhem and finding out what his deal was.

Any supervillain that advertised was, in Clint's opinion, not all that super. He had to concede that Tony did massive PR for Iron Man and the Avengers, so if superheros could be on the cover of Time and People and The Enquirer (Hulk Pregnant with Black Widow's Baby! Is Iron Man Really from Fresno?) then why not the bad guys as well? 

Of course, no one expected a supervillain to announce his presence by mailing an invitation to S.H.E.I.L.D. to visit his lair and prepare to be amazed. But that was exactly what Mister Mayhem had done, although Fury hadn't wanted to waste manpower on investigating until the DMV on 4th Ave had been enclosed in a plastic bubble with Mister Mayhem's name and trademarked logo on the side.

Mister Mayhem had mailed a second letter saying Chicago was next. Tony had argued that that was no threat, since everyone just flew over Chicago on their way to someplace important and likely no one would even miss it. But despite the fact the bubble had collapsed on its own ten minutes after appearing, the S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists had agreed that it was technologically possible to create and sustain a large bubble for hours, if not days.

No one was sure yet if it would really be large enough to encompass Chicago, but as Coulson had pointed out, even losing a DMV building for a few days was a fairly big deal. Therefore, someone had to go and do some footwork. The entire team had been about to go -- overkill, in Clint's opinion, but it did get them out of the house and into trouble. Then Frost Giants had attacked Burbank and the rest of the Avengers had gone to California, leaving Clint with the address of Mister Mayhem's lair and a promise not to antagonize the guy into destroying anything larger than a paperclip.

Clint was pretty sure Coulson was taking the paper-football thing a little too far. But he had to admit that if they wanted someone to sneak in quietly, observe, and sneak back out undetected he really was a better choice than, say, Tony. Or Thor. Or Tony _and_ Thor.

"He could have let Natasha come with me, at least," Clint grumbled to himself as he ran across the rooftop of the building three down from Mister Mayhem's reported lair. He leapt across to the next roof and hurried to the far side where he paused, and took a look around. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, there were no strange sounds or odors, no hand-painted signs saying 'Minions Wanted, Inquire Within.'

He settled down on the roof and looked the building over. There was a five foot gap between the building he was on and the one where he was supposed to find Mister Mayhem. Coulson had told him there was nothing in the city's records to tell them who the building's owner was, just a dummy corporation that traced back to nothing. There were no names at all attached to the abandoned four-story building, which should have at least been inhabited by squatters. But Clint could see no sign of anyone living inside, nor even around the perimeter in the alley and doorways, which was the best sign that perhaps this really was Mister Mayhem's evil lair.

He pulled an infra-red scope out of his kit and peered through it at the window nearest him. The room was empty and each room near it registered the same. No blobs of heat, no cold spots for stacks of servers or other tech. Nothing moving at all on the top two floors. Clint slipped the scope away and stood up. A quick run and a leap, and he was falling feet first towards the roof of Mister Mayhem's lair.

Then he was simply falling.

~~~

Clint woke up slowly, head pounding in agony. _Where the hell--_ he thought, then snapped his eyes open as he remembered. He saw the dirty, gravel-covered rooftop he'd landed on. Dust was still settling and he sneezed, then nearly blacked out again as the pain shot through his entire body. He lowered his head, concentrating on breathing carefully, pressing his mouth against his shoulder to block out the dust.

When the pain in his head, hips, and hand had ebbed slightly, he risked lifting his head again to look around. He didn't try to move -- the pain in his hips told him everything he needed to know about a broken pelvis, and the pain in his head and hand told him that even if he could have stood up and walked, he wouldn't have enjoyed it very much.

There was no one on the roof with him, which Clint decided he was grateful for. No maniacal laughter, no bad guys here to taunt him for his failures. Clint craned his head as much as he could without actually moving his body, and saw only the rooftop he'd leapt onto. The only problem was, the building next door was suddenly two floors taller than it used to be. He blinked and it didn't make any sense. The building he'd jumped onto had been four stories tall -- and as he thought it, Clint's injuries pounded his way into his brain and he dropped his face again.

Of course, if the top two floors were fake, he'd have fallen exactly the way he clearly had. He felt like a complete idiot -- and he was so very glad no one had been here with him to see it. Clint pulled the hand which wasn't hurting underneath him, intending to push himself -- well, more upright than he already was, except as soon as he shifted to one side his body told him exactly how much that wasn't going to work.

Maybe it would have been better, after all, to have the team with him. Mocking surely couldn't be too much worse than trying to rescue himself when he could barely move his head, the fingers of one hand, and -- possibly, he hadn't tested it yet -- one foot.

Clint lowered his head again, pulling one shoulder up to try to give himself something softer than the roof to rest on. It made his hips scream at him, but only for a second, then the pain faded slightly to a mid-sized roar. Clint took a careful breath and tried to take stock of his options. 

No one was shooting at him and the rooftop wasn't moving in a way that suggested giant evil robots were bearing down on him. There was no sound at all beyond the normal traffic and constant mechanical hum of the city; somewhere on the street below he could hear a radio blaring Katy Perry. Natasha liked her music, but denied it vehemently to the point that Clint had actually told the others than he'd been the one to download her entire catalog.

It wasn't like he had any pride, not when compared to Natasha threatening to do something indescribable to him if he told on her.

Clint took another breath, deep as he could without making anything hurt worse. Then he slowly began to inch his good hand down towards his kit bag-- when he remembered that, with the team in California, Clint had opted not to bring his radio along. No one to call, he'd figured, and no one to harass over the comms.

He lowered his head, wanting to bang his forehead against the tarred gravel. Then he looked up again towards the edge of the roof. It was a good twenty yards away. Even if he could get to the edge, he'd have to find the fire escape, climb down, and make it back to his bike parked -- _safely_ \-- three blocks away.

Clint lowered his head again and closed his eyes.

Well, when the Frost Giants were gone, maybe someone would notice he hadn't made it home.

~~~

He'd made it three yards. Each short drag of his body forward wrenched the broken bones and he'd passed out twice so far. He was panting hard, desperately did not want to try again. But it was going to be nightfall before long and if the Avengers hadn't come back yet, he didn't know when they would. For all he knew the fight had led to something more -- or they'd fucked off to Tokyo for dinner and drinks and wouldn't be back to New York until morning. 

Clint didn't know how he was going to make it downstairs, but he'd spotted the roof-access door behind him earlier and had judged it a better bet than the fire escape. The door was farther away -- all the way on the other side, almost fifty yards. But he'd decided he could drag himself down stairs easier than a ladder -- or, he admitted realistically, he could tumble down stairs without breaking his neck and killing himself. It wasn't ideal. Ideal would have involved convincing Coulson to send Tony to check the evil lair and leave Clint sitting in the Quinjet trading rude jokes with Natasha. 

But at least it was possible, if vaguely, and all Clint had to do was drag himself another forty-seven yards and somehow get the door open.

Hopefully it wasn't locked. Clint didn't know if he could raise his body up enough to turn the doorknob, much less pick the lock. But those problems would have to wait until he got to the door, and right now it had taken him an hour just to make it this far.

His entire body hurt, his hips throbbing with agony that only subsided when he blacked out. He coughed up a laugh, thinking it was one way to kill the pain at least, then he flung his arm up, elbow out, and dragged himself determinedly another few inches forward, body splayed out awkwardly. The pain swallowed him whole, except for his lower legs which he really couldn't feel anymore.

His other arm flopped, wrist broken but the arm still worked and he got it in place, sort of, and pulled himself along. He couldn't hold back the gasping, glad there was no one to hear him, but wishing fervently a second later that there had been. Anyone, even Mister Mayhem was welcome to show up and declare himself the winner and he could take Clint with him to witness his genius while he destroyed Chicago. Or bubbled it, whatever. Clint didn't care, if someone would just show up and get him off this roof. He used his good arm to drag himself another several inches and his leg caught something and he blacked out one more time.

When he opened his eyes, the door wasn't much closer and the sun had dipped further down towards the horizon. Clint swallowed, then shivered -- pain spinning through his body as the temperature slowly dipped. At least it was only autumn and he'd ( _probably_ ) survive the night outside.

Clint raised his arm, shoulder stiff and elbow abraded and, really, the gravel ground into his forearm was the least of his worries but it _stung_ and that really, really, wasn't fair. He pulled himself again, focusing his gaze on the door and gritted his teeth against the shockwaves that never seemed to ebb away anymore. He moved his arm again, dragged himself another few inches, then yanked his broken wrist back into something resembling the right position. His fingers were cold and soon the pain in his arm would dim if only from the cold. 

He didn't know if he should be looking forward to that. 

Trying to steel himself, Clint tugged his body forward some more. A glance around showed he'd gained another yard from the last time he'd measured. As he turned back he caught a face-full of dirt and coughed, the pain spiking with the force of it. He blacked out.

 

_He dreamt he heard Coulson's voice, talking to him in words he couldn't understand, but the tone was soft and sweet like he'd always imagined it would sound if they'd ever lain in bed together. Waking up slowly, relaxed and unhurried, and they'd take their time, rouse each other slowly, gently. Clint always wondered which of them would be the first to get out of bed -- who would give in and go make coffee, if they would both wander around naked until after breakfast. If they'd spend the day in bed, instead._

_The voice in his dream filled in the edges quietly, but Clint knew there was something he was supposed to be doing, someplace he had to go. He tried to turn around, find it, but the voice called him back to bed and Clint smiled and turned, crawling back under the covers where it was warm and safe, and arms pulled at him and he tumbled, falling, and was caught, and kissed._

 

Clint opened his eyes slowly, registering right away that nothing hurt. He opened his eyes all the way and recognized the medical quarters, the array of machines lining one side of his bed. Through the huge glass window beside the door, he saw a doctor looking at him. She glanced down, writing on her clipboard, and Clint wondered if maybe she hadn't noticed he was awake, or if maybe nobody needed to know.

A hand squeezed his, and he suddenly realised his hand was warm. He looked over and was surprised to see Coulson sitting beside him, looking exhausted. Clint tried to open his mouth, but his throat felt like it was coated in dust.

"You're going to be fine," Coulson said, voice catching. He looked like he was about to say something more, then he stopped himself. Then he shook his head, and repeated "You're going to be fine."

Clint was perfectly happy to go with that assessment, if only because he didn't hurt and he was _warm,_ and Coulson was hanging onto his hand like maybe he thought Clint would fall out of the bed. He closed his eyes, nodding a little to let the other man know he'd heard, and let himself drift back to sleep. He felt fingers brush through his hair, and, as he slipped away he heard Coulson's voice, again, following him down.

Clint smiled, and he dreamt of a large bed in a sunny room, and the laughter that pulled him back down into the sheets.

the end


End file.
